


Can't Stop

by logdate_unknown



Series: Honorary member of the human race (discontinued) [1]
Category: Invader Zim
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Depression, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sleep Deprivation, Starvation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-24 19:49:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20913155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/logdate_unknown/pseuds/logdate_unknown
Summary: Zim doesn't want to stop working. Not to eat, not to sleep, not for anything. If he does, he'll start thinking. And lately his thoughts have been anything but pleasant.





	Can't Stop

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: Zim deals with some really heavy stuff in this fic. He also starves himself, so if that is triggering to anybody, please take heed.  
This is my first Zim fic! The next ones I write will probably be more pleasant than this one.  
Follow me on my tumblr of the same name if you want! And enjoy!

These were not thoughts that Zim normally had. Zim rammed forward past his own better judgement a good deal of the time, past his own feelings, which he refused to acknowledge. Only defectives felt, wanted things other than destruction, than power. Than to further the mighty Irken race.  
But these thoughts bubbled up out of him, came to the surface, suddenly.

You destroy everything you touch.

You are a tiny, disgusting disgrace to your empire.

No one will ever, nor could ever, love you.

He had seen love. After a year or so on this planet, he knew what it meant. Glimpsed couples kissing, and adult humans tending to their young. The little worm babies looking up to their parents.  
Zim had never had parents. The only Irkens he had ever cared about impressing were his tallest.  
That was another thing. He pushed it down, tried to repress the memory that his leaders had cut off all contact with him. He was no longer even an exile, worse than a defect. He was nothing, just as he had feared being.  
In the artificial light of his base, he held himself. Wanting the weight of his arms to belong to someone else. It was shameful, even in his mind, and he decided to seek a distraction instead. 

Zim did not want to stop working. He needed a distraction, any distraction, to keep him from thinking that he wasn't anything other than amazing. Which, lately, he had to come to terms with.  
The nameless machine, a thing that would surely bring some confidence back, if it did as it was intended, lay beneath him as sparks flared up past his gloves and goggles. He had drawn a utensil from his PAK to sauter with, and pinched it hard between his delicate fingers, drawing it downward against his latest project, which came into large, bulky shapes underneath him as he worked.  
GIR watched him from afar, looking up every so often from the sheath of paper halfway scattered onto the floor with various childish doodles. It had kept him occupied longer than Zim could ever have expected, giving him the set of crayons, which GIR had surprisingly kept neat and (mostly) unbroken.  
GIR did understand, on some level, how his master had been hurting. It was because he hadn't been yelled at very often recently. He had little reason to bother his master otherwise.  
The base had descended into an unnatural quiet, with GIR's understanding silence, and Zim's desperate attempts to keep busy at all costs.  
'REMINDER,' blared the computer, carelessly. Zim did not look up, but sneered a little down into the flares made green through the goggles. ‘Your lunch hour is scheduled in fifteen minutes.'  
Minutes later, Zim finally lifted his head, his reaction delayed. "Eh? I don't have time. Push it back."  
'Push what back?'  
"The lunch hour," Zim snapped. "Even you, foolish AI, can see how busy I am. Zim can't afford to stop now."  
'You don't have to.'  
"What's- eh?"  
The AI sighed. 'You asked me to remind you. I have been reminding you every day for years now. I can't force you to take a break.'  
Zim scoffed cruelly. "Zim knows that, computer." He lowered his voice in warning. Zim was not to be tested at a time like this.  
'And anyway, your PAK should give you energy enough.'  
This time the sparks stopped immediately. Zim lowered his hands onto the bulk of the machine, looking up impatiently, but with genuine curiosity. "Explain."  
'You know Irkens can go without eating, right? Your PAK can keep your organic body functioning without the need of nutrients for a time. You won't starve, for a while.'  
"Oh, that's stupid!" Cried Zim belligerently. He pushed up his goggles to press the full might of his glare into nowhere in particular. "I-"  
The computer interrupted him, not caring to be lectured. 'If you don't believe me, look it up in the database. Your PAK works on renewable energy. It can keep itself and you going just as long as you need it to. You can work for a few more hours.'  
Though Zim didn't truly believe the computer, he was distracted enough to let the sautering tool slide back into his PAK so that he could swivel around on the crescent-shaped console chair to another portion of the lab where a small screen was kept. With a few taps, accessing the database where information on the biology of his race was kept, (which Zim rarely, if ever, studied) he came across what the computer meant, and truly paused as his eyes widened over the words.  
'See?' The computer droned, mocking its master just a little. There was no way Zim would destroy him- he was too valuable.  
It was true. The PAK would keep him alive as long as his heart was beating. Nutrition was suitable for keeping his body in shape, but it was not completely necessary. He could go without eating for as long as he wished.  
Zim grinned and kept working.

A week had passed since the discovery, and Zim felt fine. He was loathe to quit eating at first, but found it was an unnecessary activity he didn't really miss. GIR could go on eating as much as he pleased- anything to keep the little SIR unit entertained. Zim didn't have much time for him anymore. He couldn't possibly stop now. Forgoing sustenance soon became a necessity, as he gave himself more work to do.  
He moved on to experiments, enacting each one in dear silence while GIR went out to do whatever it was GIR did. Zim didn't need to know.  
He checked himself briefly, casting a discerning squint towards a reflective surface once every few days, and found that he didn't really look, or feel, any different for missing the meals.  
Perhaps once in a while, when he felt he could stand to let himself think, he could ask GIR to make him the waffles he had used to enjoy. But for now, he didn't feel as if he could stop for a moment. He didn't have the time.  
Zim dissected the rabbit with care, watching its tiny heart beating under heavy sedation. He never used to be so kind. The Zim in years past would not have sedated the creature, and would have gone right for the part he surmised to be most painful, diving in with the scalpel. But he admitted to himself, though it pained him, that it felt better to let the smaller creature go once it had been healed with a dermal regenerator. To let it live. He even liked the thought of it running around after he was done with it. Enjoying its simple life. The rabbit had absolutely nothing to worry about. No invasions to tend to, or fellows to impress. It was free.  
GIR shrieked happily as he watched it hop away from their front door, startling Zim.  
"Byeeeee, puppy! See you laaater, okay?" GIR cried after it, waving his arm fast enough so that it was a blur.  
Zim said nothing, and returned to the dim depths of the base. Onto the next project.

Three weeks had passed.  
"Master," whined GIR; what a relief that he wasn't screaming. "I made them for you."  
"No, GIR," Zim chastised without looking at him, and flicked his hand on his wrist dismissively towards the robot. "I already said I don't have time."  
"But master-"  
Zim glared at him, stopping GIR dead in his tracks. He bared his clenched teeth. GIR stepped back silently with the baking tray, holding it outward with his tiny hands clad with plush, pink oven mitts. Being glared at while being shouted was one thing, but being glared at silently was an entirely different story, and it was making GIR's little heart break.  
He had tried, really tried, on the cookies. He had followed the recipe as well as he could read it. They had come out a little burnt, but he had been so excited to show his master what he had accomplished.  
Some connections had been made in GIR's flawed circuits. That his master hadn't been coming up to watch TV, or eat the snacks he liked so much. Each time GIR came to see if he was finally ready, he never was, always hunched over another project, another device. And how his master had seemed so sad, lately.  
GIR went up the elevator, and devoured the cookies without tasting them, leaving the tray nearby, forgotten, as he climbed up onto the couch. Things usually tasted better than this. And it wasn't because he hadn't made them right. Maybe GIR was sad too.

It was a little over a month since Zim had last eaten before he felt the first wave of dizziness crash over him. He blinked, his eyelids jerking unevenly over his eyes, dropping the sharp tools so he wouldn't injure himself while the dizzy feeling made him sway a little on his feet.  
There was a terrible pain lancing through him. It was centered in his belly, then drugged each of the veins in his delicate body with white hot agony for a brief moment. His PAK, usually silent between his shoulder blades, was making a low, soft, tired sound.  
The table of the console was above him, the next time he blinked. He had fallen.  
Zim held himself uncomfortably after he managed to gather just enough equilibrium to sit up. A deep, prolonged ache welled up in his torso, different than the first pain, because it lasted. It wouldn't go away.  
He dragged himself to his feet, hoisting himself up with the surface of the table. There was sweat beading on his temples.  
Those thoughts came back, that only defective irkens have. That he was not worthy. Ineffective. His PAK should have been very efficient, keeping his body running optimally. But it wasn’t. The PAK panted, whirring, as it too tried to catch its breath.  
Irkens were confident, he reminded himself. Zim is very great indeed. He needed to be great. He could not be anything less than great, than the very best.  
He could not afford to stop working.

Week five was when Zim realized that perhaps, maybe, his defective PAK would not be as good at keeping him alive as other irken PAKs would.  
He didn't like knowing he was defective. Zim had always known he was amazing, but these things so tied to his culture- how even he had made fun of defective irkens in his youth- made him doubt himself further.  
The doubt was killing him. It clawed low in his belly from the inside, like the hunger.  
The PAK had started to whir, a thick, warning sound that had become white noise over the past week. It was working overtime to keep its host alive, without the aid of nutrients.  
He was great. He would always be great.  
But now, as Zim truly felt hunger, his eyes aching from long, drifting periods of staring down at his work, and he doubted.  
Zim tried to remember why he had thought that he was so great. He couldn't recall, in retrospect, ever having done anything very good.  
It had been an accident, killing two of his Tallest. And he hadn't been able to see over the controls of the mech when he let fire loose upon his very own world.  
The florpus hole was an accident, too. One he hadn't seen coming.  
Knowing this made Zim wonder how much longer he could stand to exist.  
He could see his ribs now, when he walked past a tall piece of dark glass, seeing himself. They showed themselves from under his uniform, six on each side. How tiny he had always been. Shamefully, embarrassingly tiny. And all this work was just going to make him smaller.

When Dib finally came around to finding out just what had happened to Zim, seven weeks had passed without seeing the invader at school at all. Ms. Bitters had finally been forced to withdraw him from her class roster. The other students murmured rumors every so often about what had happened to him. None of them seemed to make the connection between the 'professor Zim' on TV preceding the Florpus incident after life had gone on like normal.  
'I heard he died because of his skin condition.'  
'Oh, Zim. He moved away. I don't miss him yelling all the time.'  
'Zim went to the crazy house for boys, didn't you hear?'  
Dib didn't believe any of these. As an aspiring investigator he knew where the lies... well, lie. He came home, complaining to Gaz about this, Zim's second disappearance.  
"I don't understand it, Gaz," he said to his sister, who couldn't have cared less, as she was absorbed in her game. "Why would he disappear again? He has no reason to."  
"At least you're not sitting in your room, getting all gross again."  
Dib cringed in embarrassment. He didn't need to be reminded of that.  
He gathered up the courage to walk to Zim's base. It didn't take him long to get there, but it was night, and he had never felt so uneasy before. The last time Zim disappeared, he had come back, and the Urth had almost been torn apart.  
The house looked dim, without so much of its eerie pale green light that it had. It looked tired. The gnomes on the front lawn turned much less frequently than Dib could remember. He was disappointed he hadn't really kept up on his surveillance of the base, but after the Florpus incident he hasn't much felt like it. All he had wanted was for things to get back to normal.  
And things had been better. Dad had been spending more time at home. Gaz was still surly and not all that much there for him, but she had clearly softened, and it seemed the Florpus incident had gotten to her the most. Maybe that was why she'd brushed him off.  
Just as his boot crossed the threshold, a huge, metal object thrust outward through the front entrance, slamming into Dib and knocking the wind out of him. It was so sudden that Dib's vision blacked out. When he saw again, he was in the grasp of a gigantic metal hand, his feet dangling, and his glasses laying in the grass below him, luckily not shattered. He could make out the fingers closed around his body, the padded digits with exposed wiring, and the rest of the arm tapered outward in a silvery pink blur, in what seemed like a huge distance from the house.  
Zim's neighbors wandered around their houses and lawns, oblivious.  
Dib started to panic, but he noticed how gently the arm was holding him. Just enough to suspend him above ground. Regardless, he must have cried out, because one neighbor was standing very still in Dib's hazy vision, watching this all occur without much thought.  
"Well, would you look at that," the onlooker muttered.  
"The Dib must leave now," came a voice from somewhere on the hand, not shouting or insulting him. Considering Zim was the owner of that voice, that was deeply unsettling.  
Despite himself, Dib felt worry curl into his chest. Zim didn't deserve to be worried over, but this wasn't like any other of their interactions. Zim never gave up the chance to pose dramatically, or to shout his own name triumphantly. This was all wrong.  
"What's going on, Zim?" He shouted.  
The hand said nothing.  
"If you said something, I can't hear you," grumbled the voice. "A tragic oversight on my part. Nevertheless it must be remedied."  
Being set down gave Dib the sensation of an old elevator that lurched down suddenly. He stood again on the pavement after stumbling for a moment, feeling dizzy.  
"Must get back to work," said Zim, almost desperately.  
The massive hand drew back, growing blurrier for a moment, then pinched something off the ground. It came forward again, making Dib jump, and presented his glasses to him in surprising dexterity. It was a miracle that they were not broken. Dib took them, looking past the hand and into the house for any sign of Zim, but the arm retracted into the entrance with wide, low clicks of mechanical energy, and shut the door behind it.

He would become a part of this machine. That would be truly amazing.  
After another week, he had perfected the voice and microphone. The beast had grown so large that it had taken over a good portion of the base, further dwarfing its creator, who slipped from aspect to aspect of the machine like a bee shifting to flowers.  
Zim had at last decided the way he wanted to continue living. He would detach his PAK, fitting it into the massive robot, which would become the brain of the beast. His organic body would die, and only the cold, clean knowledge he had been gifted soon after his birth would remain. The knowledge he had been given was perfect, compared to him. No matter how many errors it had. There was nothing that could have as many errors as Zim. The defect. The embarrassment.  
He wouldn't have to feel anything anymore.  
Not the sadness which he realized he had really been feeling. A human emotion, infected upon him and his defectiveness from living on this rock for far too long. Another reason why he should be euthanized.  
If he even stopped work for a moment, to lift his eyes and stare into the distance, he felt the desperation, the loneliness carving down through him. He should call for GIR, take the break that seemed so tempting right now. Rest his aching bones. Eat something for the first time in nearly two months. Remember what being warm felt like.  
No. He couldn't stop. Pleasantness, love, weren't necessary for Invaders to survive. His survival was in this machine, and if he stopped now he might lose the courage, and it would never get done. He'd be a failure. And he couldn't stand to fail again.

One day though, he fell.  
Zim didn't recognize the sensation of waking up, when he did. It was so long since he had slept that the feeling was completely unfamiliar to him. He woke in a daze, lying on his side. He couldn't recall being on the floor. He had been up high, last he remembered. Was his memory failing him? GIR was pushing and shaking him forward and back, calling attention to the deep ache welling up from all sides, and the tenderness in his weightless body.  
'REACTIVATING,' droned the PAK, shocking him to life. He recognized GIR's voice, hearing after several moments. Crying. They weren't screaming, wanting cries. They were quiet, desperate sobs, and they chilled Zim to his core, waking him up completely.  
"Master," GIR said, then breathed a few rapid breaths. "Are you awake now? Please wake up, master. I'm sorry."  
Zim twisted his head, breathlessly turning himself to look at GIR, the hood of his dog onesie down around his little shoulders, and fat tears streaming down his metal cheeks. He could rust that way, realized Zim. It had happened before. Didn't GIR know he had to finish the machine? That he no longer had time to treat the rust that would surely form, if he didn’t stop crying?  
It took even longer to gather the strength to sit up. GIR stood back, trying to dry his tears with the plush of the fake paws. When he did sit up, the world melted, and Zim realized he was crying too.  
"N-no," he stuttered, pawing at his face without any energy. He didn't want to feel anything.  
He had been feeling so much, lately. Deep down, it was impossible to ignore. The hopelessness. Years of working tirelessly towards his goal, and he had still managed to hurt his own kind. Everything he touched turned to fire.  
And wanting comfort. That was new, and disgusting. Zim wanted so badly to be held. To be touched in a way that wasn't being hit or thrown. Seeing humans, the way they loved, seeing them touch one another gently, without any ill intent.... he hadn't recognized it at first. He didn't know what they were doing. But it had looked nice.  
Zim threw his dazed vision upward. He had made GIR cry. GIR had never done anything to deserve that. And while he shouldn't have been feeling regret, either, GIR had never done anything to deserve it. Zim furiously wiped the tears away. The quick motions of his hands made the dizzy feeling worse, disorienting him, making him list to one side, pressing one hand down on the floor so he wouldn't fall back. His wrist cried out in pain as he did, and he lifted it in surprise, just as a warmth came over him, surrounding him in soft, pliant plush.  
GIR squeezed him tightly. The robot had hugged him before, and Zim had always pushed him away. Invaders did not show affection this way.  
GIR must have thought he was dead. His sole benefactor. His father, was the human term. Zim hadn't noticed the distraught SIR unit shuffle towards him, and now the little robot was hugging him harder than he ever had before. And Zim felt no urge to push him away. More unwelcome tears stung at his eyes.  
"Thought you got dead," said GIR, and hiccuped, his tears slowing down.  
Oh, to be held. GIR was so warm, and the sound of his inner-workings, the whirring of his circuits, calmed Zim, even as it mingled with the noise of his overworked PAK. Supported by the hold, Zim lifted his arms and returned the embrace, laying his head on the flat top of GIR's. The pain was unbearable. He could no longer live knowing he did not deserve GIR. But he sagged into the embrace, feeling weak and dizzy, and was not certain he would be able to get up if he tried.  
They stayed like that until the restlessness came back, and Zim looked up, regarding the monster he was killing himself over, and feeling the pull to go back to it. Finish what he'd started.  
"Master," said GIR, the volume of his voice dialed down. "Is it me? I make you mad?"  
Zim grabbed a hold of GIR's shoulders and shoved him at arm's length to he could look him in the eyes. The robot's optics were dewy and slick with tears.  
"No, GIR," he reassured, and even as he spoke he was itching to return to his work, without any concept of rest. "Yes, you make me mad constantly, you insane little thing. But I'm not doing this because of you."  
Another slow tear dripped down. He squeezed GIR'S little shoulders, struggling with the urge to hold him again and be held.  
He had to get back to work.

The fainting spell wasn't forgotten. After falling from a great height, Zim ached. One side of his body felt completely tender, and it hurt to raise his left arm up completely. He buzzed over the hulking mountain of machinery he had destined himself to with far less speed than he had maintained for the past eight weeks.  
It was lucky he hadn't broken anything, falling from the machine. Or else he would be forced to stop. He tried to block out the memory of the hug GIR had given him, and how badly he wanted to be held again.  
His gloved hands shook. Another restless week, grasping hold tightly to anything nearby when he grew dizzy, kneeling on the pathways of machinery that had built up and kept growing, and failing to keep the thoughts and feelings and yearnings at bay, he did force himself to stop.  
"I've been making good time," he tried to reassure himself, lowering the tools in his quivering hands. "One moment's rest won't hurt."  
And I'm going to die soon.  
Zim was worried if he sat down, ate something, or went to his bed- which was sadly falling to disuse- that he would not want to continue working. That he would want to give in. At this point of the journey, that was unacceptable. He would just have a moment's repose away from his work. A walk around the base. Make sure everything was still functioning the way it should. That would be enough.  
I don’t really want to die. But I have to.  
But- Urth. I sort of like it here.  
Zim lowered himself down the mountain, terrified of stumbling and falling. The height had grown enough that if he should fall again, especially in his weakened state, it could be death. The PAK still hadn't healed the bruises from the fainting incident. It had to focus all its energy keeping his body functioning.  
As Zim passed a pane of dark glass, he saw himself, and stopped.  
Zim cared about his appearance deeply, though he didn't look at himself often. He knew what it felt like to be perfectly well kempt. But, though he was sentencing himself to death, he hadn't given any thought to looking dead already.  
He walked past the reflection as quickly as he could, letting out a wheeze of restrained tears.  
This was no good. These thoughts. He had to get back to work.

Dib had decided he was going to try again.  
Though he was terrified of the new hand, he had to admit he was scared for Zim, too. A War of the Worlds scenario kept playing in his head. Of Zim, flying to fight him again, then crashing and falling out of the cockpit, looking like a skeleton.  
He had no idea how close to the truth that was.  
Dib had stole- no, borrowed- a small handheld pen that would electrocute anything you pressed it down into to protect himself. With it, he was able to approach the house with only a little bit of horror racing through his veins.  
Dib braced himself, shutting his eyes tight and protecting his glasses as he stepped into the lawn, but nothing happened. No giant hand. No lawn gnome fire. No Zim.  
The young investigator proceeded still with caution, and when he reached the door, he was surprised to find it open.  
The living room was suspiciously quiet. Dib's unease grew. Everything was dark.  
He was startled at the clinks echoing in the front hall, until he saw the noise was GIR, walking out of the kitchen. His eyes glowed blue in the low light.  
On his face, tapering down from his eyes, were two brown-orange splotches.  
"Hi Mary," he said quietly, then walked over to the couch, hoisted himself on it, and flipped on the TV. The white-blue light illuminated GIR, who was covered in spots of rust. It had gone all the way down his tiny body. Dib felt bad. Wasn’t Zim looking after him?  
"Oh, hey GIR," he said casually, trying not to alarm the robot by showing how scared he felt. "Do you know where Zim is?"  
At once following the mention of his master, GIR shrieked out a despondent wail, shocking Dib, as his hands flew to his ears. The robot burst into tears. The sound was heartbreaking. Like a child who had lost their parent. Who had been watching them die.  
Nothing would console GIR. He sat there as Dib sat beside him, trying to talk him down from crying, and continued to sob. The tears ran down the smooth metal of his little frame, and he was shaking, shivering like he was in shock.  
Dib knew of no other robot that could feel so deeply. GIR hiccuped and moaned, taking in little gushes of tinny-sounding air, and didn't respond to anything Dib said that was meant to be comforting. And as he sat there, rubbing GIR's back to get him to calm down, his heart pounded in his chest.  
Was Zim dead?  
GIR eventually sucked up his tears, and pointed to the trash can, which Dib knew from experience led to the lower sanctum. He didn't want to leave GIR, but needed to, and left the robot curled up on the couch, hoping that he would go to sleep.  
Zim's base was still lit, thankfully. Dib stared past the purple glass of the elevator as it lowered him, the computer AI staying silent. He wondered if Zim had even noticed he was here. That would be unnatural. Zim was incredibly paranoid, and would have never let Dib in if he could help it. He should have been after him, cackling and insulting the child.  
He saw the machine before the elevator opened, peering through the glass of the chute, and his heart fell into his stomach.  
It was massive. The walls and ceilings in the base were spacious and tall, enough to fit it, but the sheer size of the thing was simply unbelievable.  
Dib stepped out of the elevator, looking up and up at the machine. He recognized the hand that had grabbed him. Four of them rested limply from the giant's shoulders, and a head, round and made from pink glass, rested on the chest that was full of labyrinthian wires. Dib stopped between it's legs, and all other thoughts stopped.  
"Dib?"  
The child started again, not for the first time, as he searched for Zim. The alien appeared from behind the left leg after a long moment.  
He never said Dib's name like that. It was always followed with an insult. If he chose to say it alone, he almost always spat it out.  
Zim appeared, or, the shadow of him did.  
His skin was gray. All the spaces where his skull was shaped concave, his skin had sunk, and his eyes looked even larger inside of his head than they had before. They had lost their healthy shine, and were now completely dull, without any of their plasticine gloss. The uniform looked even more like a dress as it hung limply off the bare bones of his shoulders, catching on the shape of his ribcage.  
Tremors consistently ripped up and down his tiny body. Zim leaned against the mighty foot of the machine for support. The thing that had suddenly appeared in the sanctum after only two months. Of course, Dib knew about the arm, but the magnitude of a project like this was astonishing. How long had Zim been hiding this? Surely longer than he had gone away?  
And Zim looked bad. He was going to keel over, Dib thought, but Zim didn't, just managing to stay upright. And he was waiting for Dib to say something. Zim always spoke first. Dib’s dread grew. His heart hurt a little, looking at him.  
"Are you sick, Zim?"  
Zim didn't seem to realize Dib had spoken. He looked past Dib and into the wide room behind him, and opened his mouth, letting out a few breathless pants, before swallowing and shutting it again. Then he spoke, using barely a percentage of his normal voice.  
“Hi, Dib. What are you doing here?”  
Dib walked closer. He didn’t, couldn’t feel threatened by the sickly alien, who was still shaking, his antennae limp on either side of his head.  
“What’s going on, Zim?” He found himself repeating, louder than normal. He had always had the suspicion that Zim was hard of hearing, and this time Zim responded, though not to answer Dib’s question.  
“Dib, when I am gone, I want you to have the base. You have been a worthy adversary. Zim wants you to have it.”  
Dib blanched. “What do you mean, when you’re gone?”  
Zim just stared at him emptily, his hand branched out to lean on as his labored breaths didn’t slow. There were deep blue rings under his eyes. Dib had never seen him so… sad. Zim looked as if he’d been in a dungeon for years and left for dead. When he spoke, his mouth only barely moved.  
“You’re dying, Zim?” Dib found himself desperate, his voice shaking. He didn’t want Zim to die! Sure, he’d given Dib a lot of trouble, but he was the only one who ever took Dib seriously. The only one who gave him the time of day.  
“Sort of,” said Zim, lifelessly. “When I am gone, you can do whatever you want here. Use these things to further humanity. You have won.”  
“But I didn’t do anything! I haven’t fought you in months!”  
“But… it’s been a long battle.” Zim took a breath. “You can have your victory. I am giving it to you.”  
Dib floundered, sputtering. He tried to think of a combination of words that would help Zim comprehend what he was feeling. There were none.  
“I can help you,” he blurted out. “I’ll go get my dad. He has to believe me when I bring him here. He can help you.”  
Zim’s expression sagged further, as if he didn’t have any more energy to even smile, like he had been. He had caused the boy so much trouble. He had made his life a nightmare.  
Just like everyone else who had the misfortune of crossing paths with him.  
“Aren’t you happy?”  
“No, Zim. I didn’t win.”

The words stuck with Zim. He tried to sit down to make the finishing touches to the machine. Only a little bit further to go.  
It would have been nice to see Dib happy. He deserved it. Zim couldn’t for the life of him figure out why he hadn’t been. Isn’t that what he wanted? To win?  
He wasn’t sure how long it had been since Dib had fled the base. Zim didn’t have the energy to oppose him. He couldn’t even react in time. He blinked, and Dib had been gone for who knew how long.  
When he came back, Zim wouldn’t be here.  
The thought was that he wanted to spare Dib from seeing his PAKless body. He could detach his PAK, attach it to the machine, then lie down somewhere secluded. Like his bedroom, which he hadn’t stepped foot in in several months. He wondered if he could get there in time, before his lifeclock counted zero. He wondered if he could run. Looking down at his trembling knees, it didn’t seem like it.  
Dib would look after GIR, wouldn’t he? He was probably rusted. The Dib-father was a man of machine himself and could look after GIR. Clean the rust away. Love him like Zim couldn’t.  
Did Zim really want that? To love GIR? He knew the answer already. He realized he was hating himself for loving GIR, and for also not loving him enough.  
Dib was his enemy. His smart, resourceful, cunning enemy. But he was also a child. A child that needed guidance. If it weren’t for Zim’s mission, he would have liked to be the one to provide that. Hopefully leaving him the base was enough for all the damage he’d caused him and his sister.  
Professor Membrane was a tough one. He admired the man, (in a way that confused Zim, the admiration almost too much for comfort) but still saw him as a threat. Perhaps that was why he’d sent him to moo-ping 10. The regret of separating the children from their father was completely unbearable. All these regrets, knotting in his empty belly. But perhaps he’d still do him the kindness of looking after GIR when he was no longer there. 

It was done.  
Zim stepped back. Not so far that he wouldn’t be able to reach the machine after detaching his PAK, but so that he could step back and admire the last thing he ever did.  
It was magnificent. A feat only attainable through the months of hardship he’d had to endure. While he would have liked to spend his last months on this planet outside, pretending as if he hadn’t nearly destroyed this planet, enjoying the warm spring air and watching TV with GIR, it was the best thing he could have done. Should any other invader have this planet assigned to them, they would at least see what remained of Zim, and perhaps think that he was a little better than he had been.  
And he looked, his hands trembling at his sides before bending his elbows, scarcely having the strength to lift his arms, but moving them over his shoulders so that his hands hovered on either side of his PAK, readying himself to take it off. And he looked. 

He couldn’t do it. 

No matter how selfish it was to stay alive, no matter how badly he had done this world and his own, he couldn’t bear it.  
Zim dropped, his knees buckling, like a puppet whose strings had been cut.  
Everything hurt so badly. His insides, his muscles, were emptied out and filled with fire. His heart was worse. It was stiff, shattered, broken. He wrapped his arms tightly around himself, frightened by his smallness. His PAK breathed heavily, still, making him hot and uncomfortable.  
He ran his fingers past the ridges of his ribs, and couldn’t stop the thoughts this time.  
Why won’t you do it? Don’t you know it’s all you’ll ever be good for again?  
Idiotic smeet. You’ve never been smart, have you? Don’t you know invaders know no fear?  
If you weren’t so defective, you would do it. Go, now!  
A shudder ran through Zim, and he hunched himself over, letting his antennae list forward, and choked hard on the oncoming sob that wracked his tiny body.  
Oh, it hurt, it hurt so bad.  
The tears completely engulfed the surface of his eyes, welling up hard before they fell down. Zim never used to cry. There were so many tears, held back from a lifetime of keeping them inside. Sniffling, he keened, the own hopeless sounds broken by the shaking breaths.  
What was he going to do now? What did he have to live for? All he had was his now null purpose, and the screaming inside of his heart for any kindness. For someone to look at him and smile. For someone to hold him.  
“GIR…?” he mewled weakly, the first unbroken breath he could get. Zim turned his head deliriously, coughing, the front of his uniform completely soaked, which made his shivers redouble. “GIR, please come here.” He couldn’t move. Couldn’t unwrap his arms from around himself or he’d freeze to death.  
The AI must have called GIR, because the little robot appeared, just outside the edge of Zim’s tear-blurred vision. But Zim saw the friendly blue and the silvery spark of his metal casing.  
“Master?” Asked GIR, in disbelief. “You- you cry? Don’t cry, master,” GIR whined.  
“GIR,” he pleaded tremulously, “plea- please bring me something to eat.”  
GIR’s metallic footsteps made little clinks on the hard floor as he came forward. He drew Zim into his little arms, reaching all the way around his back. He had never been able to do that before. “Okay, master,” he said quietly, and Zim nearly stopped him, to keep him there in the embrace, but remembering what he’d asked GIR to do.  
In waiting for him, his vision faded out. 

They found Zim face down on the floor, still tense, holding himself for dear life. GIR was knelt down beside him, patting his back with a surprising show of sympathy and understanding. There was a plate with a single waffle on it, a few feet away. Zim didn’t look to be conscious, though his back was arched a little, and his knees were folded under him.  
The professor and his son looked on, frowning. Membrane turned to the boy, frowning under his collar. He sighed lowly before speaking.  
“I understand, son. But- you do realize he’s a criminal. How much trouble I could put myself into by helping him.”  
Dib swallowed. He did wonder why he wanted to help Zim. But when the alien looked that way, it was hard not to. Especially since he wanted to give Dib the base.  
As he looked on, he startled himself by thinking that Zim might already be gone. But when he heard the PAK still whirring, and that GIR wasn’t really crying, he breathed out a sigh.

“I know, dad. But he wanted to leave me the base. I think he feels bad. That’s worth something, right?”  
The professor said nothing, and went forward, crouching down to take the little emaciated alien in his arms. 

When Zim woke, he was being held. It was so warm, but not so warm that it was uncomfortable. There was comforting pressure from all sides of him, and he sighed. The sensation was so good that all his other pains were forgotten.  
The movement wasn’t distinguishable at first from where he might have been, but he determined after a moment that he was being carried. His first instinct should have been to push his courier away, and to run. But Zim was resigned to the comfort, and he didn’t mind it even if he was in danger. 

He could hear GIR talking, comforting him further, knowing that he hadn’t been left alone.  
If he was still alive, maybe that meant he could be good. He would still give Dib the base, if he wanted it. Make it so he could come and go as he pleased. 

Maybe he could be good.

**Author's Note:**

> I know it's a lazy ending, but I just wanted Zim to have at least one nice thought already! After putting myself through that I really gotta write something fluffy.  
The next thing I want to write is a Zimbrane/pmazr fic, if you're into that.  
Have a good one, folks!


End file.
